


Crux

by vuas



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Athletes, Boulder Bro Ben Solo, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gremlin Rey, No Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Spanking, Talk of Physique and Body Image, They’re going to have sex and climb a mountain and argue. That’s the plot, aggressively self indulgent fic, will add tags as needed, “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you stupid”
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuas/pseuds/vuas
Summary: “Rey,” he grits his teeth, struck with the clarity of a nearly-forgotten email, finally recognizing the woman he’d just yelled at over a parking spot. The words are all but forced out with pliers. “Rey Niima. The spring outdoor instructor.”Or: Rock Climber AU
Relationships: Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 31
Kudos: 229





	Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome 2 vuas hours. My condolences you have to be here. 
> 
> This fic is a fun little indulgence into the world of rock climbing!!! Plz enjoy

There’s someone in his parking spot.

Ben Solo feels the engine of his Grand Cherokee rumble beneath him, as if also irritated at the sight of some rickety ancient sleeper van (idling! Who lets a gas guzzler idle like that!) in his spot. The offending vehicle-slash-eyesore is a 1994 GMC in desert coral—a nice way to say gross orange—absolutely covered in tacky bumper stickers ( _ red river gorge, organics gear, I sent the sheriff 5.12 in Tennessee, world’s okayest climber, above the bolt, 13er, Bernie 2020).  _ They’re horrendously gaudy and mismatched, overlapping at angles that suggested the driver had applied them with a blindfold in the dark, post keg stand. There’s even a cheery  _ climb like a girl  _ pasted over an obvious dent that makes his eye twitch.

And whoever was driving had parked like an  _ ass,  _ nearly three inches over the yellow line.

He sips his coffee, mentally noting the license plate. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’ll just wait for them to notice he’s here. They’ll wave apologetically and back out from the sign that clearly said staff only and find somewhere else to park that piece of rusty junk. He’ll finish his coffee and continue on with his normal day with absolutely normal blood pressure, because this is just a slight deviation, a detour from his morning routine soon to be righted. No reason to get angry. He can wait.

His hand drifts to the horn at twenty seconds of agony. It’s loud, shattering the cool stillness of the morning air.

“Move,” he hisses under his breath as the sound fades, willing the taillight of the monstrosity to turn on by pure force of will. Who the fuck violated the social contract like this? Who pulled into a mostly-deserted parking lot at 8am for the climbing gym and took the one spot dedicated for staff? And what type of climber drove around a sleeper without knowing how to properly park it? One of those dirtbag types—ones who passed through mountain towns like ghosts, taking advantage of other people’s good will to wreak selfish havoc; stealing towels and water and chalk and  _ parking spaces— _

The cheap plastic of his coffee mug splits in his palm, steaming hot liquid sluicing over his fingers and lap. Cursing his grip strength, Ben shoves the useless container back in the cupholder, twisting out of his seat and stomping over to the van. Hand still throbbing and pink, he raps the driver’s window hard with his knuckle. “Hey! You need to move, asshole—“

He’s surprised to find a girl— one who’d been asleep moments prior, quickly wiping drool from her chin and yanking off a pair of janky headphones—who looks back at him with genuine alarm, flailing to roll the window down.

“Sorry, what?” she asks politely, tinny music still playing from her phone. It’s obvious his gut feeling had been correct: she looks like a vagrant, knotted hair and wrinkled clothing, a smudge of grime on her cheek, the vague scent of dirty gear and McDonald’s coming from inside the vehicle. Sunburned bare feet are propped on the dash, toes wiggling in the sunlight. The sight compels a shudder up his spine.

Ben points furiously at the sign on the brick. “Staff Only, can you not read?”

A flash of hurt crosses her face, pretty nose scrunching as she sits up straighter. “I’ll move. There’s no need to be rude.”

“Must be fucking deaf too since you couldn’t hear the horn. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes.”

“Well, I’m so—“

“Maybe if you had an ounce of self-awareness, you’d realize that not everyone has the time to wait around—“

“I said I’d move my car, you jerk—“

“Some of us have  _ jobs—“ _

_ “ _ What the fuck is your problem—“

“But no, it’s people like you—selfish, lazy and  _ entitled _ —“

“You don’t even _ know me—“ _

“ _ —made me spill my coffee—“ _

_ “ _ — _ how is that my fault, you absolute—“ _

“Rey!” Poe Dameron merrily interrupts their shouting match from around the corner, a pair of newly resoled La Sportiva’s slung on his shoulder and keys to the gym twirling in his hand. “You made it! And I see you’ve met Ben ahead of schedule.”

For a beat, there’s the type of silence that can only be borne from a massive fuck up.

“Ben,” she repeats softly, venomously, looking him up and down, biting back a slow smile at the damp coffee stain on his new lululemon pants. “Yes, he was ever so kindly assisting me with the Resistance Climbing parking policy.”

Her tone is satisfied, smug, not at all intimidated like he’s grown accustomed to when talking to relative strangers. His overly large frame usually inspires fear in all but the stiffest spines—but this slip of a girl is almost  _ grinning _ . Ben senses with growing dread he’s made a mistake of some kind, trying to make sense of her sudden leverage—

_ Wait.  _

“Rey,” he grits his teeth, struck with the clarity of a nearly-forgotten email. The words are all but forced out with pliers. “Rey Niima. The spring outdoor instructor.”

She kicks open the rusty door of the vehicle with a god-awful grind of metal, forcing him to stumble back with a grunt. “Yours truly, here for the next few weekends to teach some rope classes.” The brunette hops out barefoot onto the gravel, shouldering a plastic grocery bag filled with what looks like stolen hotel toiletries. “In fact, I drove six hours overnight just to get here in time for your staff meeting. Took a little nap in the parking lot just now to make up for it,” she sneers, somehow managing to look down her (freckled, cute _ ) _ nose at him—despite the fact that the top of her head barely skims his collarbone.

He swallows. Painfully aware of her teeny-tiny spandex shorts, of all the tan skin laid out before him that glows like sunlight. She’s achingly lean but not breakable—refined muscle lining thin shoulders and legs, obvious scrapes and bruises in various levels of first aid that littered the body of any regular climber. Probably one of those flexible types that can pull a Hays maneuver without missing a beat, considering those long legs. Could eat more, judging by the size of her waist. Bulk up, if she actually wanted to get stronger. 

Her smile is saccharine, directed anywhere but him. “Poe, is it a problem if I leave my car in this spot?”

His mood sours. She  _ smells.  _ Like bug spray and muddy slate and sunlight, like something that’s burrowed under his skin, a thorn between his ribs.

And he doesn’t like it one bit.

  
  


* * *

Staff meetings were held in the conference room-slash-kitchen-slash-supply closet; Ben’s relative height usually meant he ended up jammed between the microwave and the soap, shoulder cricked oddly to avoid pressing down on the dispenser and pooling industrial disinfectant blend on his thermaloft Patagonia tee. He never felt comfortable in here, and it wasn’t just the potential soap catastrophe—he always found himself staring at the clock, wondering how soon he could escape the notice of his peers. 

Of course Rey is infuriatingly at ease; slouched happily at Poe’s side with damp hair—showered, thank god—answering questions about the clinic she’d be holding this weekend down at Chester Hills. Her bruised, taped hands gestured at a pile of notes made on the back of takeout menus as she explained the rock makeup of the surrounding county: limestone mostly, occasional slippery pockets of shale. Not as good as out west where sharp, dry granite ruled the landscape, but wild and wonderful all the same.

Most of the senior staff were well-versed with basic roped climbing, including Ben. Top rope and belay was a class he’d taught himself nearly once a week to visitors who stared in awe at the mere 45 foot wall with a padded floor for saftey, colorful neon plastic holds stretching to the ceiling of the old warehouse that now served as the only indoor climbing gym for miles.

Rey would probably laugh when she saw it.

Poe had been the one to contact her, seen on a forum that she’d been online logging new trad routes at a cliff ridge seven hours south from Resistance Climbing. Ben had helped him dictate the email:  _ saw you nailed a First Ascent last week on a 5.13, congrats! Have you ever been to Chester Hills near Coruscant? _

She had—her name was mentioned in the original guidebook published just four years previously which was where Poe had gotten the idea in the first place— and she’d been willing to come back and lead them through a few weekends for a hot shower and a slim three-thousand dollars. Half up-front.

Now she was here, charming the little audience of Resistance staff with lackadaisical effort; Kaydel and Jannah clinging to her every word, Finn enraptured to the point he’d nearly spilled his protein shake as they listened to her big wall stories. She’d shown the group magnificent photos on a cracked, ancient iPhone: Yosemite, The Gorge, Tetons—selfies of her in a yellow lopsided helmet, windburned cheeks. Dangling by a single piece of gear shoved into a finger-wide crack of rock, a beer shared on a ledge a thousand feet up. Sticking her tongue out at the peaks of Colorado. A video of a whipper—a dangerous fall, trusting the rope to hold—as she slid off nearly thirty feet of slab, a vast and empty basin of trees below. So high up the pines looked miniature.

It was stupid. And dangerous. She was stupid and dangerous and she was  _ going to teach a class. _

He leaves the room before she can make a well-worn closing speech about how a climber is only as good as their partner.

* * *

“I don’t think he likes me,” Rey mutters to Poe as the rest of the group files out with a chorus of  _ thank yous.  _

“Him?” He shrugs as they watch the quickly receding, overly large back of Ben Solo as the man in question stomps back to the front desk. “He doesn’t like anybody. Don’t take it personally.”

“No—I mean we had a bit of a...spat. In the parking lot this morning. He seemed really angry.”

Poe winces, apologetic. “I’ll send him home. Make up some excuse about doublebooking a birthday party.”

“No, no,” she flaps a hand awkwardly. “It’s fine. Really. It’s just…” her voice trails off, unsure, curious, hungry. Was there ever a good time to bring up Han Solo? Was Poe even aware that he had the heir to a climbing dynasty working his waiver ipads?

No. Probably not, she decided as she was ushered across to the locker room. Despite the fact that she burned to interrogate his son about the original stonemasters—a group of wild kids Han led in the seventies who’d conquered nearly all the mountains of the coast through sheer force of will, stealing food from tourists, evading park rangers, smoking enough weed to down a moose—it was unlikely that she’d manage to squeeze out a crumb about her hero, considering how Ben was currently glaring daggers in her direction from some thirty feet across the gym.

_ Sheesh.  _ Maybe she should’ve just moved the van.

“Morning crowd is quiet—older regulars and a few stay at home parents who probably come more for the free daycare than the climbing. Good time for warm ups.” Poe is endearingly eager, the pointed question obvious:  _ can I watch? _

Climbers like Poe meant no ill-intent, but the pressure to constantly perform as a professional was there nonetheless. It was strange—to be completely at ease off the side of a cliff face, world narrowed down to microscopic divots of rock—yet off-kilter in the padded safety of a crowded bouldering gym, hardly ever more than six feet off the ground. 

“I’m not usually even awake this early,” she admits sheepishly. “Maybe the afternoon session? I need to do some gear inventory anyway—you said you had some secondhand cams?”

To his credit, Poe’s smile never wavers. 

* * *

The truth is, she hasn’t come back to Coruscant for Chester Hills.

The three thousand dollars in her overdrafted bank account helps, but moreso she’s here to answer the call of  _ Kessel Run.  _ Just twelve pitches. Some thousand feet up the west-facing wall of the last peak of the east, a two hour drive outside the city to the State Park, and then an additional hour trek on foot to the base. It was Han Solo’s greatest achievement in 1978 and his last First Ascent; there’s no time stamped photos to prove he did it in ten hours on a dry October afternoon after someone dared him the night before, but every pothead-picnicking witness claims it’s the truth.

The first half of the slope is a gentle slab, 5.7 up until the chimney problem: a hairline crack at the base that opened up to a chasm wide enough for a human to wiggle along, provided they kept enough body tension. After some 300 feet, It met a long horizontal ledge that varied from the width of twin bed to that of a penny, lethal exposure over the edge. Legend says Han stopped there to swing his feet in the wind and pulled a gas station hoagie out of his back pocket, flicking off pickles into the vast emptiness below.

After what was proposed to be five hours of climbing, the second half of the route would begin; 500 more feet split into four pitches. Guidebooks called it  _ mirrorbright— _ near seamless, smooth stone, almost featureless, stretching endlessly to the sky.

Except Rey had poured over photographs and videos of the climbers that came before her—found each pucker and fracture and millimeter of rock that charted a course to the apex of the wall, read on forums about complex anchor systems to combat the major rope runoff, studied gear placement for hours. Two pitches of 5.12 that required a careful dance of toes and absolute trust in one’s fingertip skin, another 5.13 that would sap her remaining strength—

And then the crux. Thirty six feet of 5.14 at the end of nearly nine hours of upward movement. 

It was easy to say with feet planted firmly on the ground: of  _ course _ she could climb 5.14 if she pushed herself. She’d push and pull and wrench until every muscle in her body obeyed her commands, adrenaline too pumped to feel splitting skin and lactic acidosis. It was the equivalent of running a marathon and finding an agonizing mile-long sprint in quicksand made of piranhas at the finish line. 

She’d have to climb it. There was no other option, that high up. Nobody to save her.

Except—

There was the tricky matter of a climbing partner. Unable to do the route without one, she didn’t mind taking someone less experienced. But the pool of available partners in spring was often shallow regardless, most big names busy training for the drier, more palatable fall season. A few inquiries on private forums had been made, but nobody reliable had stood out.

Poe had volunteered himself once he’d heard her remark about an opportunity at Kessel; and truthfully, he wasn’t a terrible choice. He’d explained that he scaled hard problems on smaller walls, a climber since his teen years, enthusiastic about reaching new levels of exposure. He had an easy-going demeanor and seemed naturally friendly, a little fire behind his eyes. 

The 5.14, she sighed, rolling up a nylon strap to place it in a neat row with twelve others, would require more than a little fire. She gazed down at her guidebook, an old black and white photo of the mountain in question striking an intimidating line against the sky. 

“Kessel,” says a sandy-oak voice behind her, deep in a way that threatens to drag her under. “You came for Kessel. That explains it.”

She rolls her neck, turning to face Ben standing in the doorway to the supply room where she’d been counting gear for the clinic. He’s gripping a plastic tub filled with old rental shoes, his knuckles nearly white. He seems bigger somehow, in this small space, shoulders blocking the light and ambient sound of the gym behind him.

“Explains what?” She quickly shoves her guidebook into her lap as if it were a dirty secret.

“Twelve people total have climbed that thing—and nobody since the ‘01 earthquake.”

“The state geologist’s report from five years ago said general structural integrity of the mountain was unaffected by—“

“You’ve lost your anchor point at pitch 10 and 12. A flake shattered. Even took out some of the catwalk ledge.”

“I know,” she says hotly. “If you go fifteen feet further left, there’s another crack big enough for an ultralight cam.”

He raises an eyebrow, dumping the shoes in a pile on the work desk so he can glare at her properly. “Rated for a thirty foot fall? You  _ are _ stupid.”

She swallows the obvious retort:  _ just don’t fall.  _ “Why do you care? You’re a gym rat. Nobody’s marching you to base camp tonight.”

He scanned her face, lips parting carefully, the air thick with whatever he was thinking. Something rude and demeaning and cruel, something that would rattle her deeply. Too bad. She’d heard it all before, from men who felt they had permission to predetermine her destiny simply because she didn’t look like how they believed she was supposed to.

“Your funeral,” he says coldly, extracting himself from the room and slamming the door shut behind him, not even bothering to organize the used pile of Evolvs.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ben takes out his anger on the wall, leaving a dark smear of blood at the top out. He pushes and arcs and yanks until he can’t think anymore, especially not about furious hazel eyes and tan skin, because he’s  _ busy,  _ thanks, balancing on a needleye crux of a v7 . He doesn’t think about how small and powerful she’d been, doesn’t think about the chime of her laugh when someone asked if she ever got scared.

His left foot slips as he reaches for the next hold, plummeting him to the mat with a defeated grunt. The plastic under his foot was rubbery and slick from previous attempts, marked up by the friction of his shoes. He should’ve known to clean it off with a brush but he’d been...unusually distracted, for no identifiable reason, his entire flow off. Problematic, if he wanted to get through his training schedule today. 

“Why aren’t you pushing your hips in?”

He blinks away a cloud of chalk, sitting up on the mat to give whoever has the audacity to crow unsolicited advice from the floor—to find Rey in a wrinkled tie-dye shirt, the collar worn loose, skintight leggings practically moulded to her thighs. There’s a pair of bright but well-used slab shoes on her dainty feet, a matching scrunchie in her hair, an endearing smudge of chalk already across her cheek, like she’d been trying to wipe off a freckle.

She shrugs. “Drop your ankle and keep your hips aligned. You’ll gain at least two inches,” her gaze flutters over his broad wingspan with no small amount of jealousy. “Not that you should need it.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice.”

Her mouth forms a thin line, slightly abashed. “You’re right. Sorry.”

She deflates, suddenly fascinated by some peeling skin on her hands; he wants to kick himself, because it shouldn’t matter what this big wall prodigy thinks of his bouldering technique—aren’t really even in the same sport, not truly in the way that matters. Bouldering was an entirely separate sphere of climbing, with different risks and strategies. It had little in common with trad. They spoke different languages. 

_ They _ were nothing alike.

She plops on the mat beside him, jostling his chalk bag and water bottle, eyes trained on the wall—he watches her fingers twitch, probably miming the moves as she mentally calculated the route needed to reach the top. Her hands are small and strong and ugly, perfect for slab, flaked nail polish at the tips. 

“Double-hand start, traverse—mantle over the volume...then the footwork is the crux, really. How big is that last crimp?”

It feels a lot like an olive branch. “Big enough for two fingers,” he licks his lips, staring resolutely at the plastic holds and not allowing a single neuron to consider the innuendo implications. “Three or four of yours, though, since you’re smaller. Finish foothold is greased.”

“Then I won’t use it.”

His irritation spikes. “You have to. It’s part of the crux.”

“That’s bogus. I should be able to use the wall.”

_ Bogus _ ? He wants to  _ laugh.  _ It’s absurd. She’s absurd. Absolutely no clue what strange spell she’s put him under. “I’ll tell the setter you’re bastardizing this gym.”

“Go ahead. Frankly, doing it without the feet makes it a v8. I’m doing them a favor.”

“ _ If  _ you can do it.”

Rey wrinkles her nose, slapping her chalked hands together so dust sprinkles around them like powdered sugar. Bounding up to the base, she takes a brief moment to inspect the rough grainy surface before grabbing onto the start.

The change in her is immediate: spine taught, every movement and breath deliberate, like a dance she’d memorized in her sleep. She stretches out for a moment before leaning (fluid, practiced, graceful) for the next hold, fingers hooking with ease. Nothing is wasted, nothing second guessed: just her confident, silent feet as she strolls up, muscles flexing, the sound of air in her lungs even and controlled. 

It’s appallingly beautiful.

He can’t even bring himself to be mad when she simply avoids the slippery foothold all-together, instead sliding her toe firmly on the wall and dropping her ankle, using friction alone to balance. She lets out a little huff and squeezes her hips closer until they’re flat on the parallel; her outstretched fingertips brush the finish, somehow managing to catch and cling onto the minuscule hold despite being half his size.

She hangs for a moment like a monkey before twisting triumphantly, grinning back at him over her shoulder, a tendril of hair falling across her brow. You could hardly tell she’d exerted herself whatsoever. “Who’s the setter? Tell him that foothold was a terrible choice.”

He bites down a traitorous smile, refusing to give her an inch, lest it all come down in a landslide. “That’d be me.”

Her eyes widen in surprise as she leans back, falling off the wall and bouncing harmlessly onto the mat, hair a bit wild from the ten foot drop. The white dust on her face begs to be smoothed away by a gentle hand. “You’re supposed to downclimb,” he chastises, not sounding particularly angry.

“I slipped,” she lies, cocking her head. “You gonna eject me?”

“You like falling,” he accuses as Rey slowly rolls onto her stomach, stretching out on hands and knees. He doesn’t look at her perfect ass or her thighs or the curve of her waist. He doesn’t think about how warm her body would feel in his lap, or her soft little grunts as she—

“Sure,” her answering smile crinkles her eyes, and he thinks of her whipper video clip, the rope snapping taut as she tumbled off a cliff. It makes his hands clammy even though he’s never been afraid of heights. “It’s the closest you get to flying.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They spend the afternoon this way; carefully taking turns at the higher grades until they both get kicked off a v9, sweat dripping everywhere. The rumors about Rey are true: that she’s talented, natural, creative, her beta choices unique. He can only imagine how she looks on a real wall, in her element among the limestone instead of cold neon plastic. She’s a living, breathing climber at heart in a way few people are.

Sprawled on the mat, she wipes at her face with the hem of her cotton tee, exposing the inviting pink skin of her belly. It’s nothing unusual—plenty of girls climbed in sports bras and he’d never shamelessly oogled them—but for some reason his insides turn honey-sticky and he has to look away. 

“The heel hook was worth a shot,” she sips at her water, contemplative, apparently unaware of how effortlessly attractive she looked. Mussed hair and glowing skin. Not only that—but her skill too. They’d grown a furtive little audience at the edges of the mat that Rey seemed determined to avoid acknowledging, so he followed suit and kept his eyes on the wall. 

“It orients you the wrong direction in the next move,” he shakes his head, studying the bubbly volumes anchored seven feet up with steel bolts. “You’d need to switch hands somehow.”

“I could do a rose move,” she considers before wincing. “Tomorrow. Of course. I’m beat.”

He leans in close to speak into her ear, bumping her shoulder—closest they’ve been all day, enough that he can scent her cheap floral shampoo when he speaks. “Gotta go sign autographs, kid.”

Her grimace is adorable as she pointedly ignores the awed crowd of regulars behind them, a bead of sweat falling down her temple. He wonders what it tastes like. “Are you leaving?”

“I close tonight, so no.”

A flash of relief falls over her features. “Good—I never finished looking at the ropes. So…” her cheeks pinken. “I just mean, I guess I’ll be here too.”

“Something important you want to discuss?”

A far too hopeful heart imagines it all in a split second: her laugh, her warmth, bare skin. Small ugly hands, calloused against his own. Pulling off her shirt, hearing her gasp—

“Well, I’d like to know why the son of Han Solo is wasting away in an indoor gym,” she says lightly, a crooked grin on her face. 

It’s a knife between his ribs, yanked free, blood pooling on the floor, and she doesn’t even know it. Blind hatred—the kind that stuffs his ears, whites his eyes—claws up his throat like bile. Of course. Of  _ course _ . She wasn’t here for him, laughing with him. She was here for his father. 

“ _ Wasting away?”  _ He spits, unable to stop his fingers from shaking as they grip his water bottle. “Where the fuck do you get off?”

Her eyes are wide (terrified, and oh—it’s because of him, isn’t it? Which hurts, because he can’t stop the way it makes him feel  _ good _ ) dipping to the flex of plastic beneath his fingers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—“ she stammers.

“Always the same condescending shit with outdoor climbers,” he snarls just to watch her shrink back. Good. Little girl could face mountains and still be scared of him. “Did it ever occur to you I  _ want  _ to be here? Probably not—head too far up your own ass.”

Her cheeks redden, but she says nothing, admits nothing. Proving it over tenfold; that he couldn’t trust her.

“I can see through you,” he leans closer, not thinking about his father,  _ not thinking about his father _ . “Don’t fucking fool me. You’re just like him.”

Watching the acid rise in her eyes, he rolls off the mat, desperate to run from a girl who wielded too much power over him and his past, leaving his chalk bag behind. 

  
  


* * *

The demarcation line becomes the supply closet; Rey avoids the bouldering side of the gym for two days, her van neatly parked in the back of the lot when he arrives the next morning. Works for him. He hardly even notices she’s there. Resolutely turns his back when he catches the sight of chestnut hair pulled into three unique buns. Doesn’t even offer to help her lug in old gear from the van for cleaning, watching her stumble in with tubs of heavy metal and rope, face red and sweating. She’s  _ strong.  _ She can do it on her own. And she doesn’t ask for help anyway, refusing to even look him in the eye as her biceps strain. 

Until Thursday. 

He’s closing again, wiping down benches to clean up stray chalk, binning rental shoes, tabbing up sales for the day. The gym does well, all things concerned; floated on the backbone of memberships and stray parents searching to tire out over-energized kids, couples on awkward first dates, elementary school fieldtrips. The expensive clinics—like the one Rey will host—pay his and Poe’s rent. 

He’s about to sweep the bathroom when he’s startled by a loud, crushing clang—accompanied by a high pitched yelp—behind the wall shared with what was deemed the “hold closet,” a room filled with stacked bins of colored plastic crimps, jugs, and volumes, and a pinboard with sketches of future problems. He frowns, wondering who on earth was still here, racing to open the door—

And finds Rey looking rather dazed beneath a pile of bright yellow disc volumes bigger than her head, one of the neatly organized shelves upended on the floor, pieces of plastic scattered  _ everywhere _ .

“Sorry,” she says mutely, at least having enough shame to look mortified. “I-I was reaching for one on the top—“

“Save it,” his nostrils flare. Clearly she’d tried to climb up on the makeshift shelves without realizing the plywood bottoms weren’t secured, merely balanced, and had toppled over the entire thing. It’d take hours to clean and reorganize. “You shouldn’t even be in here.”

“Poe gave me the spare key,” she shoves off one of the volumes so she can sit up. “I was going to set some toprope problems similar to the clinic tomorrow. For the group.”

Something like betrayal singes in his chest at the idea that Poe wouldn’t trust him, head setter, instead giving the duty to this slip of a girl—who clearly couldn’t be trusted to be left alone for five minutes. Did Poe think so poorly of him, that he couldn’t set a simple mimic route? He turns so Rey isn’t able to see the flash of hurt, quickly gathering himself again. “Well, apparently that was a mistake on his part,” he rights one of the cracked shelves. “Shit—are you bleeding?”

Rey lifts her forearm with a wince, a stripe of wet ruby-red along the inside of her elbow, beading at the edge and dripping to the floor. “Yeah,” she wipes it heedlessly on her filthy, sweat-stained shirt, to his absolute horror. “Caught the edge, I think.”

“There’s a first aid kit at the front desk—“

Her answering laugh is more of a hideous snort, made entirely at his expense. All semblance of pity within him evaporates instantly. “I'm pretty sure I’ll be fine, Solo.”

Her mocking tone is more than enough to rile him back up again. “You’re a goddamned biohazard. Do you know what it takes to insure this place? You get infected with MRSA and guess who gets stuck with the hospital bill.”

“Relax, I signed your stupid waiver.”

“The rate adjuster won’t see it that way,” he bristles, unsure of why this is the hill he wants to die on when she’s clearly unaffected. “And you’re bleeding all over the floor.”

“ _ Christ,”  _ she snaps. “I’m  _ fine.” _

_ “ _ Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I’m more worried about the floor,” he snaps back. Annoyed with her—annoyed by the thought that flits through his mind, an irrational urge to shut her up by  _ kissing _ her. 

Rey blinks at the term of endearment, a strange expression on her face—and he doesn’t look, not one bit, at the flush that blooms up her neck. Reminds himself that she’s just another dirty, self-absorbed climbing bum: one that will leave town in her stupid van in two weeks time. 

“Get  _ out _ ,” he says finally, voice ragged, trying to recall his therapist’s breathing exercises as the past few days boil into his bloodstream. 

He’d be rid of her soon. Either she’d drive off into the sunset with another project logged, or she’d die on the edge of Kessel Run. 

And if she fell from high enough, there wouldn’t even be a body to recover. 

* * *

It's late by the time he’s locking the door, crickets chirping, the hum of the streetlamps accompanying him to his car. The gym stood silent as gravel crunched beneath his feet. Sore in a good way, his fingers are swollen, knuckles taped, muscles stiff as he unshoulders his bag to throw in the trunk. 

The  _ van.  _ The fucking  _ van. _

Rey is sprawled on the ground a few spots away, tinkering beside what’s obviously a flat tire, the van sinking to the rear passenger side. She’s wearing a headlamp—meant for night climbing, the beam shivering up the wheel well as she works. 

“Rey,” he grinds out, rubbing a tired hand across his brow. 

“I’m almost done,” she calls, grunting as she pulls at another bolt. 

“Let’s go.  _ Now.” _

She turns, the headlamp momentarily blinding him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m taking you to my place. You can sleep there.”

She wrinkles her nose. As if his cozy apartment is a fate worse than death, worse than sleeping in her no doubt chalk-ridden air mattress shoved into the trunk. 

“I’m not leaving you here in the dark. And I’d really like to go home, so pack it up.”

She twirls a crowbar, loosely tapping her knee with the carved edge as she considers his proposal. She watches him with an intensity usually reserved for the wall, and he’s pressed to admit it’s mildly unnerving. He’s surprised even granite hasn’t tumbled before her gaze.

“Alright. Just until I get the flat fixed.”

He nods.

“And you have to pull that stick out of your ass. Seriously.”

He jerks his head in an approximation of a nod, clenching his jaw.

“ _ And  _ we get some pizza.”

And that time, he laughs, never seeing how Rey’s face breaks out in a soft, returning smile.

**Author's Note:**

> YES THE STONEMASTERS ARE REAL PEOPLE I DID NOT MAKE THAT UP. They have terrible fashion sense. Think lots of neon. 
> 
> My recs for this funny little niche world:
> 
> The Dawn Wall (or the book, The Push) w Tommy Caldwell
> 
> Lynn Hill’s autobiography (rep for short women everywhere) and esp her first female ascent of the nose!!!!!!!
> 
> Valley Uprising, a documentary which can tell u more about the origins of rock climbing and it’s association w 70’s counter culture. Basically the only reason we have climbing today is because a bunch of stoners found a ton of weed in the mountains of Yosemite and they had to figure out how to get up to it. It’s funny.
> 
> Pretty Strong, a doc on the current big female names in climbing!!!! They are: pretty and STRONG
> 
> Kessel Run will be based on a mix of the Dawn Wall route, Upper Exum Ridge in the Tetons, and a couple routes in the Shawnagunk mountains in NY. But this is more for fun so I’m not gonna be terribly technical about it.


End file.
